


Answers in the Snow

by RainyDays_and_DayDreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Friends to Lovers, Holiday Fic Exchange, M/M, No Mary, Snowed In, Tumblr: exchangelock, for tumblr user lestradebbc, gift for parchment, hope you like it!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:32:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyDays_and_DayDreams/pseuds/RainyDays_and_DayDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John still hasn't quite come to terms with Sherlock's return from the dead, and how he feels about, and him. A snowstorm and subsequent power outage helps a little.</p>
<p>A gift for the lovely lestradebbc/parchment as a part of the exchangelock 2014 Holiday Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answers in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parchment](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchment/gifts).



> I'm terrible with titles, so apologies for that.
> 
> Mary doesn't make an appearance in this, and presumably never attempts to have a relationship to John. This wasn't due to any other reason than it got in the way of the story I wanted to tell. 
> 
> Also, I'm American. I did my best, but apologies for any screw-ups. :(
> 
> Enjoy! :)

It starts with snow. 

John's typing up a reply on his blog, fingers tapping the keys slowly, when he looks out the window and says to himself, somewhat surprised, "It's snowing." Fat, fluffy flakes are falling, slowly building up on the street below. A few straggling passers-by walk on the pavement, trying to get home before the storm worsens. The wind blows steadily, carrying winter chill with it. John remembers briefly hearing newscasters talk about the "storm of the decade" a few days previously, and is quietly thankful that he went down to the shops yesterday. 

He tries to write for a little longer, slowly replying to a few more comments, but after a few minutes he gives up and closes the laptop. He sighs, putting it on the table in front of him, before moving over to stand by the window and watch the snow fall.

It's peaceful, calming, and he feels his shoulders relax slightly, as if a weight's been lifted off them. He hasn't had a chance to properly enjoy snow in- well, years, really. Not since he was a kid, if he thinks about it. It's nice, and he's briefly glad that he's having another opportunity to enjoy it. 

Before he remembers. Sherlock. _Shit._

Because Sherlock is currently running somewhere out in the streets below, in the midst of trying to solve what he claims is "the most interesting murder in years", and John hasn't seen him in a few hours. The last he'd heard, he was at the morgue, going over the last victim's body once more. (He'd offered to bring John- well, he'd asked if John would go with him- and John thought of the comforts of his bed, as well as the many blog-related activities he needed to take care of, and tried not to sound too enthusiastic as he declined.)

Now Sherlock's out, in what might be the worst snowstorm in a decade, and is probably still inside that bloody morgue because the idiot probably hasn't bothered to check outside and observe the actual weather. 

John reaches for his phone and checks it. One message, from Sherlock. He reads it quickly.

_ Be back in twenty minutes. Have tea ready. SH  _

John quickly checks the time. That was sent...fifteen minutes ago. He breathes a sigh of relief. Sherlock should be fine, then. Cold and probably upset because he had to leave his corpse early, but fine. 

On second thought, maybe not fine, then. Sherlock in a strop was abominable enough to deal with already, but with both of them more likely than not going to be trapped together in the flat for a few days, snowed in, it was looking like an even more challenging proposition. John groans. 

He briefly debates whether or not he should make the tea. On one hand, Sherlock will probably need something to warm him up. On the other, Sherlock hadn't bothered to ask politely, and John wants to watch the snow. (He also doesn't feel like making Sherlock tea, but he won't admit that.)

John sighs and quickly puts the kettle on. Sherlock probably won't thank him for it, he thinks bitterly as he adds some sugar and a splash of milk to the tea.  

John used to find pleasure in this, in making tea. For a while, when he was freshly back from Afghanistan, with a hole in his shoulder and a tremor in his hand, it would give him something to do. Not that tea-making was a particularly fulfilling activity, or took a long time, but for a few blessed minutes his mind would be completely and blissfully blank. No limp in his leg, no screams taunting his subconscious, no aching thoughts about his former commander. Just sweet, blissful silence. John thinks he drank more cups of tea during those six months than he had his entire three years in Afghanistan. 

That was then, though. Now John has Sherlock and his blog to occupy him, and occasionally dull his thoughts. Tea-making, for him, now, is when he contemplates matters. And as of late, there have been an alarming number of topics he does not want to contemplate. 

Sherlock, for one. Actually, that was all of it, really. What had happened the two years he had been away. Why he'd kept John in the dark. And, most importantly, how John felt about all this, about him, because he'd had enough trouble dealing with things and how he felt about them in the past, especially Sherlock, and now that he's back from the dead, things aren't much easier. 

 John makes the tea as quickly as possible, finishing just in time for the door downstairs to open and close quickly, and him to hear the sounds of footsteps running up the stairs. 

John walks out of the kitchen in time to spy Sherlock, dark hair filled with large, rapidly-melting snowflakes, pulling off his scarf and coat, wet and shivering. John rolls his eyes and hands the man his cup of tea. "Here," he says, as Sherlock takes a grateful sip, eyes closing with relief.  "Drink this, and wrap yourself up in a blanket." He frowns. "Actually, shower once you're done as well. Hot water." 

Sherlock rolls his eyes but smiles. "Yes, sir," he says, and John's worry about Sherlock being in a foul mood vanishes. Sherlock is still going to be Sherlock, but at least John doesn't have to worry about a black mood as well. 

John grunts and goes to sit in his chair again. He picks up his laptop but does nothing with it, instead choosing to look outside again. The snow is coming down harder, now, and John could barely see the street below due to the rapidly falling flakes. He's glad Sherlock made it home now, or else he would have had to search for him in the snow, as well as Mycroft's men- and the thought alone is making him shiver. 

Although, now that he thinks about it, the flat is rather cold. Sighing, he stands again, moving to the fireplace to start the fire. He hears the shower start in the bathroom. 

He works on the fire, arranging the wood, humming softly as he listens to the world around him. 

* * *

When Sherlock came back from the dead, John had just finally settled into a new job at a new clinic, finally bought a new flat, and regained enough trust in himself and his will to live to ask for his gun back from Greg. 

He was getting by. He was surviving. He felt better than he had in two years, and felt marginally better than he had when Sherlock had first found him four years ago. He had gone out on a few dates. None had led to anything further, but they were still nice. John was, for lack of a better word, okay. 

Then Sherlock had shown up on his doorstep, drenched, pale, shivering, large as life and _breathing-_

Sherlock babbled something that sounded like an apology. Maybe it was a plea to be let in. John stared at him on shock for a few moments before slamming the door shut. 

He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Opened the door again. Sherlock was still standing there, still breathing, his state from ten seconds ago unchanged, except now he was slightly more drenched (just slightly), and there was an edge of irritation- almost desperation- around the corners of his eyes. 

"John," he whispered, shivering violently, "Please let me in. I'll explain." 

For one brief, terrible second, John was tempted to slam the door again. To tell him to fuck off, to leave him shivering on the doorstep, as hopeless and alone as John had been when Sherlock had stepped off that roof two years ago. John's hand was reaching for the doorknob to do just that when he looked, really looked, at Sherlock. 

Sherlock was pale, and thinner than John had ever seen him. His eyes looked almost sunken, his cheekbones stood out in stark contrast with the rest of his face. He had his  Belstaff  with him, but it was soaked as well- whether that meant Sherlock had walked here, or had waited here a while before ringing the doorbell, John didn't know- after all, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock looked at him, icy eyes pleading. "Please," he whispered, and that single syllable, muttered with utterly hateful sincerity, was what did John in. 

Still only half-convinced he wasn't hallucinating, he opened the door, saying stiffly, "Come in." 

With that, Sherlock Holmes walked into his small flat, and back into John's life. 

* * *

It's Sherlock's quiet plucking of his violin that wakes John, a slow dance up and down the D string, then the A string, before moving back down to the G string. 

John blinks a few times, blearily rubbing his eyes and stretching. He's fairly warm where he is, with the fire still going, and when he looks outside, it's still snowing, soft little puffs building into walls and ridges of white. He guesses there's around a half a meter already, and more coming.  Behind him, Sherlock continues to pluck at his violin. John turns around to check on him. He's dressed in dry clothes now, hair still slightly damp from what John hopes is the shower, and not the snow. His now-empty cup of tea sits on the table beside him.

John feels an urge to get up and kiss him. (Been happening more and more, these days.) He closes his eyes, inhaling and exhaling until the urge passes. Sherlock doesn't notice, or doesn't say anything.

John exhales softly with relief before stretching, padding out of the room and climbing upstairs, heading to his room to grab a warmer jumper.  

He notices how much colder it is in his room and bites back a curse, sighing. He can't sleep in here tonight, not unless he wants to freeze in his sleep. Unless he can get the heater to work again, or find the portable heater that's somewhere downstairs and plug it in. 

Just as he thinks that, the lights go out, and Sherlock's startled cry of outrage reaches John from the floor below. 

"Shit," John mutters, before quickly changing into the warmer jumper he'd originally planned to change into, then grabbing as many blankets as he can carry and his pillow. No sense in going back up to his room later, when it'll probably be even colder than it is now, when he knows that he's going to be stuck sleeping downstairs. 

He walks back down the stairs, careful not to trip. His head is barely visible behind the mound of blankets, and by the time he's downstairs it's already been relit slightly, by candles and the fire. Sherlock is waiting, half-frantic, half-furious. 

"John," he says, half-manic. "The power's out." 

John grunts as he sets the blankets down on the floor. "Yeah. What about it?"

"John, the power is _out_ ," Sherlock repeats slowly, as if John couldn't possibly comprehend the implications of this. "My phone can't charge. My laptop can't charge. We have no internet." He glares at John, as if this is his fault, of all people's. "How am I supposed to solve the case without internet access?" 

John begins to rearrange the blankets, not looking at Sherlock. "I don't know. Don't work on it until the power's back. Or you could, you know, figure it out. You're the genius here." He looks down at his crudely made bed, deciding he'll fix it later, as it's only eight o'clock. 

Sherlock's silence and glare is answer enough to John's suggestions. John ignores him, instead searching for a flashlight so he can maybe attempt to read.  

Things are rather comfortably silent as John sits down, having found the flashlight. Excluding Sherlock, of course, who is sulking on the couch, unnecessarily loud huffs of air an act of protest.  

* * *

After the first night, where John let Sherlock in and cleaned his wounds, and listened to him as he tiredly recounted his story multiple times, John put Sherlock in his room gently and tucked him in, before heading to his kitchen and  pouring himself a glass of gin.

They couldn't speak to each other without dissolving into an argument for two months. 

John didn't know how he was supposed to forgive Sherlock. Sherlock had apologized the best he could, and John recognized that, appreciated it, but it didn't erase or ease the pain of two years thinking he was dead. 

So John carried on with his life the best he could, helped Sherlock return to health and get ready to move back to 221B when the time came. 

Sherlock looked up at him as he wrapped his scarf around his neck, said quietly, "You could come with me, you know. Back home." 

John didn't know whether to cry or be furious because even after all this time, Sherlock still thought 221B was John's home. And damn him, he was right. 

John grunted and looked down. "Maybe soon." He looked up briefly, and couldn't stand the brief moment of vulnerability that flashed on Sherlock's face, so he stepped for ward and hugged him, careful to avoid the injuries on his back, and said quietly, "All right. Soon, then. I promise." 

Something like hope, or maybe happiness, shone briefly in Sherlock's eyes before he turned around and left the flat, to take a cab to go back home. 

Three days later, John realized he'd never needed to forgive him. He already had. 

He pulled out his phone and sent a text to a number he hadn't texted in over a year. 

_Willing to help me pack?_

The reply came almost immediately. 

_ Of course. SH _

John smiled softly and whistled contentedly. 

* * *

 

The rest of the evening came and went, with no sign of the power returning, no hint of the snow repenting, and temperature decreasing inside the flat slowly. 

At what John guesses is around ten, he sits up, stretches, and begins to remake his bed as Sherlock grumbles in the corner. John ignores him, instead curling under the covers as he says sleepily, "Go to bed soon, and be quiet." 

Surprisingly, Sherlock complies, and John's asleep in less than ten minutes, the warm crackling of the fireplace and the soft patter of snow falling outside pulling him into unconsciousness. 

* * *

Around three hours later, John's woken by soft rustling, before his covers are lifted, exposing him to the cold air. John yelps, sitting up to potentially defend himself, when Sherlock slides in beside him, lowering the blankets again. 

John blinks and sits there in shock quietly, because Sherlock Holmes just climbed in bed with him. (Well, not exactly a bed, but that's beside the point.) 

He lets out a small gasp of surprise, before hissing quietly, "Sherlock!" 

Sherlock mumbles something back incoherently, nuzzling into the blankets until only the top of his head is showing, curls splayed out on top of the pillow. 

John, quite frankly, is at a lost for words and thinks he has a right to be. As much as he's dreamt about this for the past five years, to actually have it happen, and this unexpectedly as well, is a bit of a shock. 

He shakes his head before whispering again, slightly more insistently, _"_ _ Sherlock! "  _

Sherlock sticks his head out of the blankets long enough to mumble vaguely at John, "S'cold in my room." This appears to be more than enough explanation for him, as he burrows back under the covers and sticks his ice cold feet on John's leg. 

John winces at the feet and at the pure practicality of Sherlock's answer, before he takes a deep breath. All right, then. He'll sleep next to Sherlock Holmes for one night, and in the morning, if Sherlock asks (which he will), John will simply not talk about it and never bring it up again. At least he gets to have this one night to himself. 

And then he lays down and Sherlock, in his sleep, (John thinks it's his sleep), wraps an arm around his waist before burying his face in the back of John's neck and making John lose any chance of sleep he might have had. John exhales heavily as Sherlock's curls tickle his neck. Shit. 

He lays like that for what feels like hours, listening to and feeling Sherlock breathe, becoming lost in the rhythm of him. It's nice. More than he'd ever thought he'd have. 

He slowly falls asleep. 

* * *

 

When John wakes up the neck morning, a few things come to his immediate attention.  

It's still snowing, but it's died down a bit, become less a blizzard and more a flurry, the flakes dancing and falling rhythmically.

Somehow his and Sherlock's positions switched during the night, with John's arms wrapped around Sherlock, Sherlock's back pressed to John's front, John's lips pressed to the back of Sherlock's neck. It's. Well. Really nice, and more than John ever hoped he would get. 

Lastly, Sherlock is still asleep, soft breaths puffing from his nose as his chest contracts and expands between John's arms, and John is terrified of him waking up. Of this coming to an end. 

Because, as he reminds himself for the umpteenth time, Sherlock's not interested in anyone that way, much less him, and…that's that. There's nothing he can do about it. This is a fluke, a one-time thing, and John should be happy he gets this at all, gets Sherlock after all that happened. 

But he's not. God, he's not. 

He buries his face in the back of Sherlock's neck, and breathes deeply, willing him to sleep just a little bit longer so he can enjoy this. 

Snow falls outside, the fire crackles quietly, and the rest of the world slumbers. 

* * *

Sherlock sleeps for another half hour, and awakens with a small gasp, a fluttering of eyelashes, orienting himself for a minute, before saying, voice slurred slightly by sleep, "Good morning, John." 

It makes John want to cry. It makes him want to scream and punch a wall and grab Sherlock by the shoulders and pull him in kiss him hard, until they both can't think or breathe or function.

"Good morning to you, too," is what he says. 

Sherlock turns around to face him, moving his shoulders and legs to stretch them before his eyes face John's. He doesn't move out of John's grip, John notices, and he fights down the flutter of hope in his stomach. 

Sherlock watches him for a minute, observing the simple nuances of John, before saying softly, voice almost shocked, or maybe awed, "You.. e njoyed  this." 

No point in lying. John nods.  S herlock's face breaks into a smile, and John smiles nervously back, unsure of what just happened or what to say. 

It strikes him, suddenly, that he could probably kiss Sherlock right now, that he would most likely get another chance, and if things went wrong-  well, he could handle that when the time came, but this might be it and he's only a breath away- 

Sherlock pulls back before John realizes he's been leaning forward. 

John winces and pulls back, internally cursing, and somehow manages to get out an embarrassed, "Sorry."  


Sherlock shakes his head, and he looks almost embarrassed. "No," he says, pausing for a moment before continuing, "Don't be." And then he smiles, and John feels the same way he did the night he shot the cabbie for Sherlock, the night he and Sherlock walked out of the pool after agreeing to die together. Sherlock's smile says he feels the same. 

It's just- John doesn't know if he's ready yet, or if Sherlock's ready yet, and suddenly he understands why Sherlock stopped him, and is grateful. But this... John thinks this means that one day, someday soon, they'll both be ready, and he's in a single moment happier than he's been in years. 

They lay like that for a while, and when John tries to stand, Sherlock stops him with a hand around his wrist and a quietly whispered, "Stay."

John stays. 

Outside, the snow falls, and the embers left from last night's fire glow and pop softly. Soft light filters through the crack in the curtains. The old wooden floor gleams dimly. Sherlock and John breathe in unison.

All is calm.  

**Author's Note:**

> I think now would be a good time to say that I took creative licence with this, because unless I'm completely wrong about how big-city power grids work, I'm assuming it doubtful the power would be out that long. But, if for some reason it could, yay me. :) 
> 
> I will love you forever if you leave a comment, or kudos. <3


End file.
